Crowing about new attitude toward crows

Val Myers

March 22, 2013 12:01 AM

Val Myers

March 22, 2013 12:01 AM

I don't often watch nature documentaries on TV.

Watching a lion chase down his dinner puts me off mine. And even if it's a show about baby penguins, there's bound to be something snacking on a baby penguin or repeated previews for next week's dining-out-on-the-Serengeti show.

Like lions, those documentary filmmakers crave raw meat.

But for some reason, I flipped channels to PBS' "Nature" a few weeks back and wound up watching a program about crows -- sure enough including aerial combat with a cooper's hawk and more peckish hawks raiding nests. But by that time in the program, I was hooked.

These birds recognize and react to a particular person, make and use their own tools, and even reason their way through a computer program offering treats.

So where were they when my computer refused to offer me treats one quiet Saturday morning when all of the I.T. folks were flocking to the mall or the Peak?

Probably calculating how high to fly to drop a walnut onto the road so that the tennis-ball casing splits open without damaging the nut inside, according to the crow show.

And even calculating when to drop it, depending on the timing of the red, yellow and green lights on the traffic signal nearby.

Makes sense. What good is a ready-to-eat walnut if a Tim Hortons truck squashes it before you can swoop down and retrieve it?

Anyway, I'm now treating crows with respect.

I figure it pays to be nice to a bird that can do the math to drop a walnut from a sufficient height to crack my casing, or put out an ACB, or all-crows bulletin, across generations if I heckle or toss a shoe.

So now, when I walk to the car or go out for the paper or mail, I wave and say a cheery "hello" to the crows watching from a few stories up in my trees. So far, they mostly listen to my calls without comment, maybe while they consult their field guide.

Once they peg me as a North American empty-nester, I'm hoping for "hello" in return. I know that they have it in them, according to my mother, if not PBS.

A crow that used to hang around her childhood home learned to mimic "hello" and repeated it as regularly as an alarm clock outside her brother's room each morning, and kept it up until he got up and answered it.

That particular crow did other wonderful things but unfortunately met a tragic end. I'd tell you about it, but a crow might be listening.

And then it would pass the word, and there'd be hundreds of black-clad mourners in my trees, and maybe hundreds of available walnuts.